


On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: One Fancy FBI Ball

by Mangokiwitropicalswirl



Series: The Twelve Tropes of Christmas [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:40:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8948158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangokiwitropicalswirl/pseuds/Mangokiwitropicalswirl
Summary: This is part of a personal challenge to write little holiday drabbles that may or may not connect, but which each contain one of the fandoms' favorite tropes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a personal challenge to write little holiday drabbles that may or may not connect, but which each contain one of the fandoms' favorite tropes.

She reaches for the bottle of perfume gathering dust at the back of the bureau. She wrinkles her nose and sighs as she uncaps it and shakes a dab onto her index finger before dotting a few drops behind each ear and rubbing the rest on the flat of her wrists. The bottle is more than half full, a gift from her mother several years back. 

Tonight, at least, there’s a place to wear it. This last touch in place, Scully fastens her long wool grey coat all the way up before wrapping a deep green scarf around her neck. She wishes she’d chosen her dress with a little more forethought to the weather, but here it is, December 15th, and D.C. is covered in an unexpected layer of ice. She glances nervously at her shoes -- shiny black pumps, a little higher and sexier than workday wear, but now she’ll have to teeter her way to the taxi across the treacherously non-shoveled walkway. It’s that or change into something with grip. And that’ll ruin the whole outfit. She’ll manage.

She does. She manages the shuffle to the taxi, and manages to bark out directions to the Air & Space museum where the party is being held. She hands the driver her fare and slides out to perch in a dry spot of pavement, her green scarf now unlooped from her neck and her hair a bit mussed. She starts to regret bringing the silver clutch because she needs her hands to grab whatever railings there are to be had. She glances around, pushes the wayward wisps of hair from her cheek and takes an enormous step across the curbside slush pile, teetering precariously for a moment as the thin heel of her right shoe threatens to give way. 

She is beginning to feel ridiculous. She should have worn proper shoes. She should have worn a warmer dress. She should have skipped the perfume.

But, he’d said he would be here. He’d stopped short of asking her to come, and certainly had not implied they should go together. But he’d tossed off a challenge, a dare, the same way he’d once teased, “C’mon Scully, it’ll be a nice trip to the forest.” As if, how could she possibly refuse?

And this year Diana will be here. If Scully is honest -- deep down in the part of her psyche that’s in denial over absolutely everything as regards him -- she wants to win. She wants to walk into that room and slay him, to absolutely flabbergast him to the point that the only thing he’ll be able to think is, “Diana who?” And then she wants to saunter away as he stumbles to pick his jaw off the floor. 

This is not a Scully she indulges too often. In fact, almost never. It’s petty. It’s beneath her. 

It’s all she can think about as she checks her grey coat and green scarf. As she grasps her impractical silver clutch that holds only her lipstick and cell phone. She’s already drawing a few wide-eyed stares as she fixes her eyes on the ladies room door and confidently clip-clops her way in to freshen up.

As a teenager, she read a numerous Seventeen articles on why redheads shouldn’t wear red. Most of them argued that red would clash with the hue of her hair, or would wash out her pale skin. None of them made their case on the basis of the professional demeanor of its wearer and the fact that red sometimes signifies slutty. Or wanton. Or at least several levels of sexual confidence beyond what she is feeling right now as she avoids the gawking clean-cut young agents mingling in the lobby.

But this is the perfect red. Because she also read that article about how some reds have orange undertones and some reds have blue. With her Nordic skin and blue eyes, the blue-reds should work just fine. Her dress is the latter. A deep wine-red verging on burgundy. Her skin looks like untrammeled snow and her dress is holly berries. 

In the bathroom mirror, a smile flickers in her eyes as she imagines sliding up to him with an innocent “Merry Christmas.” Her lips curve slightly as she reapplies wine-colored lipstick. Her stomach’s a tangle of nervous denial. She smoothes her mussed hair -- she left it down, not too much different than normal, but it’s curled under, wavy and soft. 

Another female agent says something about her “nice dress.” She barely hears, but just nods, afraid it’s too obvious what she intends, that her voice might betray her apprehension. She adjusts the silver dangles at her ears and tucks her hair behind only her left ear. With a quick down-jerk of the tight cloth over her hips, she gives herself one last appraisal and walks out.

He is standing under the massive display of the Apollo 11 lunar landing module. It figures. He is reading a plaque, one hand absentmindedly twirling an empty wine glass. He has been here a little while already. But he’s alone, and she breathes a sigh of relief. While part of her wanted to see the look in Diana’s eye when he sees her, all of this is for him in the end. It’s his reaction she’s waiting.

He’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading and doesn’t see as she parts the astonished crowd. He doesn’t hear the murmurs that start as she moves toward him, oblivious to everything but the strong shape of his shoulders under his black jacket, his slender hips, and the familiar cut of his hair. 

As she walks, the dress begins to ride up. It’s knee-length and tight, cut like a pencil skirt, with a deep square neckline on top. Its thin straps can barely conceal the straps of her shelf bra, and the motion of her steps jostle her breasts until they spill a little higher over the neckline than she had intended. She hadn’t thought it was very low cut when she bought it, but it is obvious now that the white expanse of her chest and the round of the tops of her breasts are the main focus of every male eye in the room -- and those of a good number of women. She starts to wish maybe she’d brought a shawl.

As she crosses the room, Scully glances up at the replica of the Wright Brother’s plane which is suspended over the atrium, so she misses the precise moment he sees her. Instead, she’s startled back to attention by a the crinkling sound of breaking glass and the sight of Mulder’s flailing arm that has just lost control of the wineglass. He is facing her now, and he sees the amusement on her face as she arrives at his side.

“Oh hey, Scully.” The color in his face rises. “Finally made it, I see.”

“You gonna tell anybody about that little accident?” she teases.

“Um, yeah,” he gulps. His eyes dart around the room as if looking for the catering staff. His restless gaze catches hers but carefully, deliberately avoids any glance below the meridian of her clavicles. When he finally spys a waiter, he motions one over with a jerk of his chin.

“Let’s get some air,” Mulder says in a rush, still avoiding looking at her for more than a few seconds at a time, “It’s really warm in here.”

“Mulder, it’s freezing!” Scully protests.

“I’ll get your coat,” he counters before remembering she’s just arrived and taken off her coat. “ Sorry, nevermind. Um, let’s…”.

“How ‘bout we just say hello?” Scully smiles and lays a hand on his arm. “You clean up nice.”

Mulder startles a little at her soft touch and then moves his own hand to the curve of her lower back. 

“Hi,” he replies, a smile of his own breaking over his face, only slightly disguising the unfamiliar nervousness in his eyes. “You, Scully, you look…” he leans closer and breathes softly into her ear, taking in the scent of her rarely worn perfume, “you look amazing.”

The warmth of his breath on her neck sends a thrilling shiver through her body, and any plans Scully had of playing a tease with him tonight fly out the window. She had not expected this frank directness from him, had assumed any mutual appreciation of the other’s physical attributes would pass with customary unspokenness. His comment has broken the rules.

Scully is suddenly aware how they must look to their peers. She tries to put some distance between his mouth and her ear, stepping sideways away from the familiar pressure of his hand on her back. But he doesn’t let her go, moves with her, settling his hand a little lower this time, just over the upper curve of her left hip, his lower thumb dangerously close to inappropriate territory.

“I need a drink,” she blurts out suddenly, turning her chin up toward him in time to see his gaze drifting over her snow white chest, dipping toward the dark shadow of her accentuated cleavage.

“Me too,” he jerks his head up guiltily. “Me too. I’ll get them. Be right back.”

Without warning, he strides across the room toward the bar, leaving her in the cold draft of his absence. “Mission accomplished,” she thinks with a satisfied grin. “Mission fucking accomplished.” Only then does a thread of panic spool through her blood when she realizes she hasn’t thought about what might come next.

“White wine, miss?” a roaming waiter offers from a tray of sparkling glasses.

“Yes,” she grabs one and drinks most of it in one quick gulp. “Yes please, and keep ‘em coming.”


End file.
